


Beyond This Wall

by TheGirlInTheB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aliens, Amnesia, Blood, Everything is awful, Gore, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Survival, aliens eat people, nothing is cute or happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheB/pseuds/TheGirlInTheB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avengers AU -Tony flew a nuke into a hole in the sky. And it didn't end well. Six months later and Manhattan is a walled off wasteland filled with the remaining survivors just trying to find a way to close the hole in the sky and go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wall

It wasn’t pretty, but it was theirs. 

The Wall towers over them, robust and long in either direction as far as the eye can see. Beyond it the Harlem River snakes its way around the island of Manhattan. Clint knows this but he can’t see it, can’t even make out the sound of water from beyond the deep wall holding them all in. Six months ago there were bridges here somewhere connecting Manhattan to the rest of America, Clint knows this too, but they’re not around anymore –just crumbling remains of overpasses on this side. The sandy white Wall is all there is now. Thick and impassible with sharp remotely controlled turrets to shoot anything that comes over out of the sky. The sharp metal wire on top catches the sun and throw off fingers of light making Clint cup his hands to his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s looking for; the Wall’s as tall today as it was the last time he saw it. As tall as it was when they built it. It’s not like it’s going anywhere. Clint knows. 

“Eyes sharp, Barton.” Coulson’s voice is stern and only as loud as he’ll allow over the hissing sound of a near-empty can of spray paint. Clint blinks, lowers his palms and points his sharp gaze at his handler –the man dressed in full tack gear and a thick bullet proof vest. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his dusty brow making his short brown hair stick. They’ve been out in the open for too long. 

Hawkeye hates the exposure. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t see you.   
Give him a good sturdy perch any day.

Clint nods, doesn’t risk words and scans the terrain behind them for signs of movement or a shadow where there shouldn’t be any or the faint sound of shuffling amongst the concrete. All clear. Not a cloud in the sky, not anything on the ground. Here’s hoping it stays that way. The sun hangs above them at 2 o’clock like a disk burnt into the sky. They need to think about getting back to the helicarrier. 

The land before them is dry rubble, slabs of concrete and tall grasses that have broken through to reclaim the parched land. Bent and leaning apartment towers shimmer in the day’s dry heat. Twisting metal rebar and burnt out shells of SUVs stand, staring back at Hawkeye from his place near the wall. The smell of charred rubber hangs to them, the smell of burnt wood and buildings clings to the air, the smell of burnt skin washed away months ago with the first few rains but that’s not something you forget easily. It stays in your memory like a ghost. 

A few small birds –sparrows maybe –hop in between the junk and that’s a good sign; too quiet means trouble. 

“Spotted some junk a few clicks back. Tony wanted us to bring him parts.” Clint reminds softly as Phil finishes up. Popping the cap back on the canister, Coulson takes a step back from the wall to admire his handy work. He blinks some sweat from his eyes, mops his brow with the back of his hand, nods to himself and turns on his heel to face Barton. 

“Then we’d better get moving. It’s getting late.” Phil’s mission voice is still firmly in place as he and Hawkeye march out away from the towering wall that separates them from the rest of the world. Shouldering their packs, they pick their way across the ruins of Manhattan towards Central Park. 

Left behind are the words drying on the Wall in red paint.

‘IT’S A MAGICAL PLACE’   
***  
It wasn’t pretty but it was theirs. 

New York hadn’t looked the same since Tony flew that nuke through the hole in the sky. Okay, that’s not fair; it hadn’t looked the same since the hole in the sky appeared in the first place. Tony blames himself for enough; he doesn’t need to own this too. But he’s Tony so he does anyhow. 

Nat had done her best to close the portal, the staff twisting in her hands, blue sparks flaring in the smoky sky as the others fought beneath her, but the power of a nuke going off just beyond the portal was too much and it tore the sky open spilling Chitauri and their crafts and energy into the sky, onto the earth...

Iron man fell –Hulk caught. Tony lived, but many people died. Many, many people. The Avengers were suddenly dealing with a much bigger containment problem and the World Security Council felt their hand was forced. 

The Wall went up around Manhattan, around the worst of it –keep people safe, keep America safe they said –and then the bombing as SHIELD struggled to close the torn portal for good. What was left was this; a charred boiling landscape with only a few hundred or so people left and a great Wall to keep them in. And no clue about the land beyond or how it faired just that this was the worst of the worst. 

Oh...and Coulson had survived Loki’s spear to his heart. Clint’s a little shaky on the details but he feels like it doesn’t matter so much. Phil’s here. Even though the world’s fallen apart at least he has Phil. 

Six months later and the Avengers were doing their best. They were on the Manhattan side when shit hit the fan and they stayed because A) people needed help, B) the hole in the sky still remained and C) there was a huge fucking Wall. And leaving hundreds of people behind was just not in the cards. This was their mess; they’d help clean it up.   
Simple. 

Also Hulk had been on the receiving end of one of those turret shots and it was not pretty. More charred flesh. He’d healed of course but Bruce wasn’t eager to try again. 

So here they are; Clint and Phil, hiking from the Wall towards Central Park. Manhattan is eerily quiet without the echo of traffic; so still without humans bustling about. There’s no hum of electricity in the air, the smell of car exhaust has faded away –no grease from hot grills or hot cigarette smoke or...anything. Still. 

The forage was more or less a success, they’d busted into a few remaining buildings –ones that looked relatively stable –and scrounged for cans. And forget taking the elevator; the hot day made the track up the musty stairwells muggy. The apartment they broke into made Phil’s shoulders sag. Dusty and drafty from the broken glass window but otherwise untouched; it still had the look of a home. Like someone could maybe still live here; if you just close your eyes you could see their ghosts bustling about –TV on, checking their mail, making a meal, getting ready for work...

Clint stood with Phil a while in the doorway, just quietly waiting, a strong hand on Phil’s shoulder as he takes a minute to breath. 

“Okay, Hawkeye,” Coulson’s voice is quiet but sliding back into place, “let’s get what we came for.” 

A few blankets were salvageable –some clothes from the lone bedroom dresser –a small fire extinguisher under the sink, some laundry detergent and toiletries. Clint grins holding up five rolls of toilet paper. Phil grabs some medicine from the bathroom cabinet but both men are wary of the fridge. Electricity was cut months ago and the appliance was giving off a smell that could strip paint.   
Clint pulls the collar of his shirt up over his nose as he edges into the tight kitchen area –for all the good it will do him. The smell of hot rotting food is a smell you never forget either. The cupboards are less than inspiring. The bread’s gone so mouldy he’s sure Bruce will want a sample, and some of the boxes of cereal look like an animal’s been into them. Still –two cans of beans and a tin of ravioli get tossed into his pack. Not bad. 

“Pretty good selection.” Phil says, popping his head into the kitchen to show off his find. Soap and toothpaste. Their packs are getting full –they’ll need to tag this place for later. Maybe let Steve know so he can come by on his runs out into the wastes. Clint smiles fondly as he watches Phil go through the large DVD collection in the small living room area. Here they are, stuck looting in a post alien invasion and Philip J Coulson is looking fondly at the cases of Star Wars films. He’s about to wistfully put them back so they can get back on the road, but Clint plucks them from his hands and pushes them into his over-stuffed pack. 

“We’re here for necessities -,” Phil tries to remind sadly. 

“And these make you happy, that’s necessary.” Clint grins as his husband barks out a laugh, his eyes crinkling at their creases. It’s a moment of gentleness in their hard landscape. He’s not going to watch Phil mope all the way back to the helicarrier. And besides, moral on the airship could use some boosting in the way only lightsabers can provide. Clint snags a few DVDs for himself and they’re off. Phil quietly taping a plastic garbage bag he found in a cupboard over the window and Clint firmly shutting the door behind them –scrawling an arrow in red spray paint on the wood. 

They’ll be back. 

It’s in a basketball court on Lexington just a few blocks from Central Park when they find it. The chain link fence is twisted in and torn in a few places and the pale creature is squealing and clicking to itself near the far end of the court. 

Phil stops them at the first sounds but as they edge closer the gangly thing barely notices. A Chitari bent over the upper half of a body, fists dug into the guts of what used to be a person, pulling out stringy twists of intestine and tearing them off in its teeth. Blood paints the court, the head turned away from the two men’s view, an arm slung at an odd angle with flies starting to hum in the air.

Clint knocks an arrow and starts to take aim; he holds it, waits for Phil’s signal. Without their precious hive-mind, the aliens had been reduced to base instincts; feed, sleep, piss, repeat. Feeding was perhaps the grossest of these because they’d doggedly go after anything that moved and while one wasn’t much of a problem –fucking shoot it –a group could be trouble. 

The thing stuffs more greying meat into its mouth chomping wetly, drooling pinkish scummy spit onto the hot cement. Phil’s sigh and slight turn of his head is all Clint needs. The creature catches the movement, twists its lean upper body –mouth still full and clicking –towards them and Clint shoots it between its milky yellowed eyes. Soundless, the Chitauri drops to the ground.

A quick sweep proves it to be alone; Clint walks over, boot planted on the alien’s head to yank his arrow out and cleans the tip.   
“Ugly fucks.” Clint grumbles kicking his boot into the Chitauri’s lifeless head. The man at his feet is young and thin with a gaping hole in his torso, eyes wide open in death. Clint takes a moment to hand his head before pulling out a blanket from his back and draping it over the body like a shroud –the young man’s arm and feet sticking out, but otherwise covered cleanly.

There will be other blankets. 

“We need to get back to base. With one this close others can’t be too far.” Phil says, head up and gun drawn. He appears calm, collected, and ready –but Clint can see how it bothers him. Fuck, it bothers Clint too. Watching some butt ugly rabid space alien picking people off. They should have stopped this, they should have done better, there never should have been a fucking nuke in a fucking wormhole in the sky. So many things. 

This and the Wall are the reminder of how crazy their lives have become. 

Well...this, the Wall and the helicarrier sitting in the Central Park pond.

Central Park’s over-grown foliage and grown-over pathways do little to hide that a giant airship had parked itself here. The woods have started expanding their reach and while the Chitauri stay mostly in what’s left of the city, where small packs of people are, it’s not like they’ve never seen one in the park. Moving through towards the water is slow going, Phil watching their backs while Clint clears the way forward. 

Fury had put the helicarrier down in the water –did his best to avoid taking out what was left of the city. It wasn’t the best choice, but it was what they had. Still, the pond gave the base a good clear area to see from and a supply of water. Before he left to take his brother back to Asgard, Thor had charged up the helicarrier and a few of its back-up generators vowing to return once Loki was adequately dealt with. 

Six months on and no sign of the thunder deity; Fury kept the place running on the lowest and most efficient energy levels imaginable. Only parts of the ship had round the clock power; the rest were on a ration. It didn’t stop Tony and Bruce from rigging up some makeshift solar grid for the little things. Like a DVD player in the big common room on the upper levels. Tony had insisted it was the little things –and if they were stuck on this camping trip for the long haul they should at least have coffee and movie nights. 

And coffee was getting low. 

The pond’s in sight when Clint hears the gruff galumphing shuffles of an angry green giant through the foliage. His great green hide blends in so well it can be hard to spot the Hulk at first, but Clint has never been happier to have Banner’s angrier other self on their side. 

“Hey, big guy.” Clint lowers his bow, relaxes his stance and lowers his gaze; something he’d never have considered months before,   
“Just coming home from our fieldtrip.” 

Hulk snorts gruffly, peering at Clint and Phil before deciding they’re friendly and lumbering off into the forest. They get to pass.   
The helicarrier sits mostly in the pond, floating on the glassy water’s surface; though a portion of the forward deck hit the shore when they landed –the craft that much bigger than the body of water. Either way it makes getting on and off easier. Most of the lower decks are mostly under water leaving only the flight deck, turrets and turbines at the surface. The ship is well built and seaworthy so it’s holding up, looking almost pristine compared to the decimated city around them. 

The Electronic Intelligence Center and Combat Operations Center are somewhat operational and still being used by the remaining SHIELD agents, as is the Watch Station Display Room. Air ventilation, sick bay, mess hall and crews quarters –all need electricity and all have their daily ration. And thank fuck Clint and Phil signed up for trips into the city; no one wants to be on that boat when the air ventilation and AC drops. 

Only Tony and Bruce manage it and that’s because they’ve rigged some junk together to make some fans that run on –fuck, Clint doesn’t know –but they make it work. There’s a fucking hole in the sky. They make it work. 

“You’re late.” Nat greets from the deck. Her arms are crossed and her face impassive, but Phil knows she was worried. She expected them back an hour ago which means she’s been standing out here on the warm runway listening, watching, waiting. 

“Got held up on Lexington.” Clint shrugs one shoulder. Nat casts a look to Phil who tries to smile but it comes out grim. She knows they’re upset. 

“Catch us anything good?” She changes the topic and lets both agents off the hook as the three of them walk towards the reinforced flight deck doors and into the warm helicarrier. 

“Couple of pigeons,” Phil informs, “and a few cans.” 

“Fantastic.” Natasha deadpans. Pigeon stew is getting old really fast. But when Phil slips her one of their rolls of toilet paper, she smiles, bumping shoulders with him and they are forgiven. Toiletries are quickly becoming a currency around here. 

Down, down, down the dim flights of stairs they go from the hanger deck towards the mess hall to turn in their catch, then on to the labs where they can hand over the rest of their goods. Nat’s flashlight guides their way down the metal staircase; their boots echoing slightly off the steps. The air here is muggy and warm –not blistering like the sun baked earth outside, but still clammy and humid. The stairwells don’t get electricity rations at all. Phil’s caught some of the remaining SHIELD agents playing ‘what are you looking forward to most when you get out of here’; hot showers, good food and AC usually make it to the top. 

The mess hall staff are a little more impressed with the cans –but just as tired of pigeon as Natasha. They’ll take it though. 

“The last ones you shot were bigger.” One of them gripes but takes the birds from Clint. He’s young; a level 3 SHIELD agent –still just a puppy –and just as hungry as anyone else. 

“You want to give it a try?” Clint holds out the bow irritably. Phil knows he’d never really let anyone touch his gear –especially the bow –but he’s upset. They both are. The level 3 agent scowls and takes the birds away. 

Lunch rations are handed out on plastic cafeteria trays; some hot canned soup, two saltine crackers, and a strip of jerky. Perhaps it’s beef. They’ve learned not to ask. The mess hall itself is empty, filled with chairs and tables and not a person in sight. Most of the agents have already eaten and have gone back to work leaving Clint and Phil and Natasha alone in a dimly lit room. The air streaming in from the vents is cooler but most of the mess hall’s electricity goes to the fridges and stoves. AC is on but only just enough to make it bearable. 

“You saw one.” Nat cuts to the chase as they start in on their meal. Her voice is quiet but still echoes a little in the empty room, her sharp gaze scrutinizes the two men across from her at the table. Clint pauses, eyes the waxy looking jerky and pushes it across the plate with his spoon. It’s the only answer he gives and it’s all Natasha needs. The rest of the meal is finished in silence. 

“Cap should be getting back soon.” Black Widow says as they part ways, “I’ll drop by later tonight.” 

“Thanks, Natasha.” Phil’s smile is genuine and Clint hugs her briefly before they disappear into the halls of the helicarrier. Clint and Phil heading down to the lab Tony and Bruce commandeered with the rest of their catch and Natasha will go topside to keep an eye out for Steve. If he’s not back by sundown she’ll go out after him. Besides; the lab isn’t her favorite place and Tony...Tony barely remembers her. Or anyone for that matter. 

Things just haven’t been the same since the sky opened up.


	2. Hole in The Sky

Space is cold. Even from inside the Iron Man suit Tony felt it. The nuke he carried was warm though, burning hot above him where he held it. He’d tried to phone Pepper but she’d been out of country on business and probably hadn’t heard her phone, or maybe it was on silent or in her purse –in any case she hadn’t picked up. And Tony was flying a nuke through a hole in the sky.   
Because that’s his life. 

‘Take it away and what are you?’

Beyond him the stars blink back, tiny specks of life and fire burning just out of reach –he would have been awed if not for the mass of Chitauri and their giant space whales sailing towards him –maws open and snapping and screaming. 

A large part of Tony is afraid. Terrified even. 

He’s seen videos of space, seen rocket launches, and even funded a few of them –but this...a hole in the sky, a nuke in his hands, a solar system laid out before him and an army advancing? This is not a future he’d planned for. Tony the futurist. Will there even be a future if he fails? For Cap? For Bruce? For SHIELD? 

For Pepper? 

For him? 

Well, okay, maybe not for him –even if he does pull this off. He’s flying a warhead into an army of space aliens. Tony’s not fooling himself. Not now. He’d called Pepper to say goodbye. Because this was it wasn’t it? Could it be anything else? 

A small part of Tony is maybe okay with that. 

‘Take it away and what are you?’ 

Go out saving the world? He’d imagines there’s worse ways. 

Tony lets his fingers loosen, lets them slide away, lets himself let go. It starts to pull away from his grasp as his thrusters cut; the suit wasn’t built for deep space. The last thing he sees is the white hot light –that flash and then only darkness behind his eyelids. 

Tony falls. 

***

The lab is muggy and the lights here are rationed just as they are in the rest of the base –though their ration is higher than the living quarters. This isn’t just a lab, its hope that there will be a way to close the hole in the sky and that they can clean up and go home. The glow of dim lights is enough to see by and the screens Tony’s got set up illuminate the rest. SHIELD’s R&D staff scurries about trying to get as much done here during their energy ration as they can –but it’s not them Clint and Phil have come to see. 

Tony’s off in his corner of the lab; sitting at a work bench with a young member of SHIELD’s science division. Phil has a pang of guilt in his scarred chest for the pup; SHIELD preps staff for all kinds of crazy, but not really this. Poor kid can’t be much higher than level 4. Now he’s stuck behind a wall with aliens and electricity rations.  
Tony and the young pup trade numbers and figures and ideas before the SHIELD agent is shooed away back to his station. Tony rubbing his brow thoughtfully as he eyes the numbers they’d gone over. Beside his desk stands the Iron Man suit –fixed and polished, but the faceplate still gone from when Hulk tore it off. 

Faceless. Empty.

‘Take it away and what are you?’ 

Clint tries not to look at it. 

Tony had carried that nuke all the way through the hole in the sky and the explosion that tore it all apart had knocked him senseless. The suit saved him from the worst –from dying –but not the memory loss. Those first few months were the hardest, waking up to a world gone mad, and relearning everyone’s names. He still avoided Cap, though. Mumbled something about how Howard would have been thrilled and then holed up in the lab. 

Clad in a black sleeveless top and some jeans, Tony’s still got a sheen of sweat on his brow and a smudge of grease on his cheek. He’s probably been out trying to dissect the few cars they got Hulk to drag back. The batteries under the hoods are still good and who knows what parts they can cannibalize into other projects. The biggest job on the table being ‘CLOSE THE HOLE IN THE SKY’.   
The dark circles under Stark’s eyes whisper that he hasn’t slept; his hands are twitchy which scream that he hasn’t had a coffee or something to eat in much longer. Phil thinks of the food they turned over upstairs in the mess and wishes they’d kept a can for the sleepless inventor. He’s already planning how to get Banner to drag Tony back to his quarters for some rest when he’s less green around the gills.

“Stark.” Phil greats, slipping into his everyday-man Agent Coulson face as they near his work station. Clint hangs back a bit; Tony remembers Phil more. 

“Agent –can’t talk now, very busy.” Tony tries to brush Phil off and it’s sort of comforting because it was always like that with Stark. Coulson had foreseen this evasion and had come prepared, digging though his pack for the tech they’d scavenged. 

“I’m sure it’s very important, but Barton and I just dragged this mess of wires across town for you-,” That gets his attention. Tony’s out of his chair and plucking the alien tech from Phil’s hand eyeing it before spinning on his heel towards the desk. 

“Looks like some kind of power router –JARVIS,” Tony mutters before addressing the AI.

The voice crackles in from the computers at Tony’s desk –weekly compared to its usual fashion at Stark tower, but still ready to help with anything Tony needs.

“I need a full scan, analysis and comparison to the rest of the pieces collected –the works.” Tony fingers fly across the screens calling up previous scans of twisted space metals and wires Phil and Clint had hauled back. 

 

“Probably take a few, if you and Birdbrian want to stick around,” Tony looks confident as he walks past Coulson and Barton towards a model of what might one day be a new device to close the portal in the sky. It looks similar to the one Natasha struggled with six months ago, but only just. 

And then it happens. 

Tony gets this far away look in his eyes and he stares. Just stares like he’s remembering something just out of his reach. Just beyond the hole in the sky. 

“Tony?” Phil asks but he’s seen these episodes before. Skipping meals and lack of sleep make them worse and more frequent. He doesn’t even budge, still staring, eyes fixed. The glow of the screens in the low light cast Tony in a pale light making him look all the more worn. 

In his eyes there are aliens in the sky and a nuke in his hands and he can’t let it go –he can’t –, but it’s so damn cold. Cold like his chest when Obi –God, Obi! He tore his heart out; Tony can feel it like it was yesterday –it was yesterday...wasn’t it?

“Stark.” Clint calls just loud enough to break it and Tony’s shoulders jump, his eyes coming back into focus. He swallows thickly, throat clicking as he gathers himself enough to speak. 

“Who’s bright idea was it to shoot a nuke at New York?” His words are soft but audible; he still has his back to them. Phil doesn’t answer and neither does Clint.   
Tony shrugs their silence off, “JARVIS will let you know if we find anything.” It’s a dismissal. 

“When was the last time you slept, Stark?” Clint pipes up. 

“One minute I’m telling a press conference that I’m Iron Man and the next I wake up and the world’s gone to shit. And apparently it’s because I flew a nuke into a space army. Probably not my finest moment,” he admits, “I’ll sleep when it’s fixed, Barton.” 

***

 

The power ration for the living quarters is on its last three hours when Clint and Phil get in through the door. The space is small –the helicarrer rooms weren’t designed to be big spacious things, just enough that someone could crash in between shifts. A small room with a bed crammed up against the wall –two pillows, thin sheets -, a closet and a bathroom so small one had to back out to turn around. But the bathroom had a tiny shower stall and toilet so Clint couldn’t complain. Sure beats sleeping out in the wastes of the city with man-eating aliens. 

Phil takes his boots off and starts to shrug out of his sweaty field gear. His shoulders sag from the weight of the day as Clint starts to strip down as well; taking the time to clean his bow and stow it neatly away. By the time he’s done, Phil is heading for the shower. Clint catches sight of the long angry looking scar on Phil’s back and he has to look away. For months after Phil was out of the infirmary Coulson had showered with his shirt on so his husband wouldn’t have to see it –not because Clint thought it was ugly or unsightly, they both had enough scars from the years –but because he’d blamed himself (still does, if anyone’s asking). They’ve come a long way in six months; Phil still has some PT routines and Clint can now look at that scar without going pale and breaking down into silent tears. But some days he’s still a little raw.

Water, like electricity, is rationed. They get ten minutes and that means that showers are often taken together. As Clint steps in behind Phil under the spray, he rubs his calloused hands into his husband’s tight shoulders before grabbing the hotel-sized bottle of shampoo to lather through Phil’s short hair and then his own. The soft citrusy fragrance isn’t necessarily Clint’s favorite, but it’s what they found on one of their trips into the city and it keeps them clean all the same. The water here isn’t heated but standing close to Phil’s warm –living, he’s alive and that’s all that matters –body keeps Clint from complaining too loudly. And after missions like today’s he wants to be as close as he can. 

The older agent turns in Clint’s arms as the cool water rinses the suds away, the scar on his chest like red rope lain over skin. Clint doesn’t look at it and Phil understands. There’s more on their minds today.

“Make me forget, Clint. Help me forget.” Phil’s eyes are pleading and Clint would never say no. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a million years.   
He nods, letting Phil pull him closer under the spray as Clint kisses him, brushing his tongue past his husband’s parted lips to map his mouth. Slow and easy. Clint swallows Coulson’s moan down; his right hand cupping the back of Phil’s head, scratching lightly at his scalp, his left smoothing down his water-slick back to rest just above his ass to pet temptingly at his heated skin promising more. 

Phil mewls, widening his stance enough so Clint can fit his thigh just so, allowing Phil to thrust against him properly. And he does; arching his back gloriously like a bow, a broken cry breaking out of his chest as Clint nibbles scarlet bites into his exposed neck. But Phil’s chasing this far too fast –they still have a good five minutes, and Clint means to make his husband enjoy it until there’s nothing left. No monsters, no dead city, no team in pieces, no hole in the sky. Just the cool spray and Clint’s warm voice in his ear telling him to let go.   
Just them. 

“Easy, babe, easy. We have time.” He whispers just above the water and Phil nods thickly, smearing hot sticky precome into Clint’s thigh as his hips thrust and rut against his husband’s body. Clint knows the water will wash it away but there’s something inside him that howls at having Phil smear himself into his skin. His scent on Clint’s skin, marking him, calming him just as Clint’s teeth scrape his name onto Phil’s. His own cock throbs against his belly where it’s pressed between them like a brand.

The hand on Phil’s lower back presses him in and holds him, moving slowly, rubbing circles downward, temptingly towards his ass until Clint’s got a handful of skin to squeeze. Phil tries to press back, chasing the touch and the feeling of being surrounded. Clint’s kissing him again, hot and deep; his own dick is more than ready to move this along, but this is for his husband. His husband who gasps into his mouth when a wet finger firmly circles his entrance. 

One of Phil’s hands snakes between them to grasp his husband’s erection, eager to make this good for him too. Clint’s breath stutters and he loses his pace a moment before doubling his efforts because apparently Phil wants to fight dirty. 

“Please, Clint-,” Phil breathes against Barton’s mouth. Hips jerking forward to grind of their own against his archer. 

“Soon. Just enjoy the ride.” The man taking him apart assures, letting that finger press in and crooking it to find Phil’s prostate, the white hot pleasure fading out his senses but for Clint’s words, “I’m right here. Always.” 

And that does it. The cool water is a sweet contrast to their heated skin, their heated breath, their frantic racing hearts. Phil’s climax, his soundless cry, his hand still pumping Clint’s dick, brings Clint over the edge after him. 

And for a moment they forget. 

The water cuts out a minute later leaving both agents damp and dripping in the shower stall –their bodies holding each other up in the sudden quiet. Clint helps Phil out and into a towel as soon as he trusts himself to move. He helps Phil into some thin sleep pants and into bed, Barton opting to sleep naked beside him. They’ll start the night curled around each other, Clint draped across Phil with his head tucked up into the crook of his neck, but once the AC goes it’ll be too hot for cuddles. 

Just means they’ll have to savor it, Clint shrugs as he rubs a hand absently over Phil’s chest. 

“Thank you.” Phil whispers into the dim room. 

“Anytime,” Clint assures, dropping a kiss to Phil’s collar, “Love you.” 

***

The evening sky is touched with oranges and painted reds. A few stars blink down on Natasha as she stands on the muggy deck of the helicarrier looking out into the woods of the park. Hulk’s out there somewhere; she can hear him now and then moving through the brush. She thinks it’s more for her benefit than anything.

He’s still here.

The once he caught something –one of the Chitauri –he’d torn the thing in half, spraying blood and organs across the grass leaving the twitching mass to the crows. Natasha was more surprised than upset. Better Hulk got them. But it was a reminder of monsters and how they really did exist –just not under beds or in closets but out in the world and in people.   
Not something she needed to dwell on. 

Steve had an hour of light left and then she’d go out after him. 

But Steve hated the idea of any of the team being out after dark –even Hulk –so he’d do his best to be back on time. The old soldier probably just found a camp of survivors and was slowed down helping them cross the street or something. Hopefully he’d not try to bring them back to the helicarrier; they had enough mouths to feed. 

It’s Hulk’s grunt that signals Steve’s arrival with five little ducklings trailing along behind them. Natasha drops her shoulders a little as the parade draws closer. The children hold hands in a line beside Captain America; Each one wary, each one scrawny, each one grubby. The oldest can’t be eleven. None of them speak or make much noise as Natasha would have expected; they’ve learned to be quiet little mice out there   
in the wastes of the city.

“Got a little held up.” Steve says by way of apology. He’s carrying the smallest in one arm, her face tucked shyly into his shoulder. Her left arm is bandaged with strips of fresh cloth. 

“I see that.” Natasha eyes up Cap’s new friends. Only the one boy has shoes. Nat had wanted to beg him to stop bringing people back, but the sight of them makes her melt a little inside just like it does every time. This is why they’re here. This is why they stayed. 

Their mess. They’ll clean it up. 

“Isabella here got her arm caught playing around some broken cars over by the Hell’s Kitchen Wall,” Steve pats the little girl’s shoulder –she still looks a little tearful. Nat bets the child’s screaming and struggling would have attracted more unwanted attention; Isabella was lucky to be found alive. 

Hurt means dead out here. 

“Barton and Coulson brought back some cans and we should have a few rooms still open on the lower decks.” Nat tells him as they start to make the walk back into the helicarrier with the children in tow, “Bruce should be along shortly.” 

Behind them the forests of Central Park grow darker as the sun dips, the stars and half moon bathing the tops of the trees in pale light. And from its place, the hole in the sky stares down on all of them. The depths of some strange solar system peering back at them. Tonight nothing more falls through it. Tonight they are safe. 

***  
It’s dawn when Phil wakes feeling uncomfortably warm in their stuffy quarters; their energy ration long since used up, the AC gone. The thin sheet is tangled about his legs but it’s the shuddering body beside him that gets Phil moving. Phil paws for the camping flashlight they’d scored a week ago, flicking it on towards the ceiling so the room is illuminated just enough. Clint’s face is folded up in a grimace, his lips tinged blue with the sudden cold of his skin. 

Loki’s spear left a physical scar on Phil, but the ones Clint carried were all kept out of sight, blooming only in the night and early dawn. They wracked Clint’s body with shakes, his eyes tinged blue like his lips in the onslaught of cold. Phil hated these attacks with a passion because of all the pain they caused his husband –for all the times he suffered through them alone while Phil was in recovery. 

Coulon wishes every form of Asgardian justice on Loki for ever touching his Clint. For doing this to them. 

“Clint,” His voice is quiet but urgent. Barton’s body is covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat, his form shivering heavily –one hand clenched to his chest where the spear got him turning everything cold and blue. 

“Clint, baby, please wake up.” Phil knows better than to shake him awake, instead wrapping arms around him and stroking his arms to warm his skin despite the heat of the room, “You’re here; you’re safe in bed with me.” He croons softly on as Clint’s body jolts and shudders.

“You’re here, Clint. We’re here –just us. I love you so much,” Phil croons, kissing Clint’s cold cheek. One of Coulson’s hands comes up to wipe the dampness from his husbands worried brow. He rocks the archer slowly into wakefulness; Clint’s eyes opening but still not quiet seeing. And then he’s moving. 

Clint’s off the bed and stumbling out of the room to violently wretch into the sink. Phil follows, gently soothing his hands up and down the planes of his archer’s back as he gags and brings up bile. Tears are streaming down his face as Barton reaches clumsily for one of Phil’s hands, tugging it over his chest and clutching it like it could vanish. 

“Phil-,” Clint’s voice is wobbly and wet. His skin is still cold but he’s warming up -the attack ebbing away much faster this time. 

“It’s not your fault.” Phil’s words are soft but they still sting –he knows the pattern of his husband’s thoughts by now, knows what must be whirring through his head. When he doesn’t answer, Phil carefully turns his husband into his arms so he can get a look at him face to face, “What happened to me –to you –was not because of anything you did or didn’t do, Clint Barton.” 

Clint hangs his head a little whimpering a little at the sight of the tight red rope of raised skin on Phil’s chest. The evidence of Loki’s touch. A few heavy tears streak down his cheeks. Phil’s thumbs gently brush them away before folding his husband into his arms. 

Phil had died. Was dead. He stopped breathing. He died. And Clint still isn’t sure how he got him back –how he’s standing here in their small bathroom with him. A part of him could not care any less, but another is bugging for answers. 

The hand Clint is still squeezing tugs up towards that angry scar to press against it. Beneath the battered skin lies a precious heartbeat –steady and strong. 

“None of this is your fault,” His words are soft but Clint shakes his head thickly. Phil brings his hands up to cup his husband’s face, “And I will keep telling you every day for as long as it takes you to believe me.” 

 

Breakfast was some of that tinned ravioli and another strip of jerky. Clint eats it this time, albeit slowly. Phil tries to push part of his portion towards his husband but Barton just glares and pushes it back. They both need the energy just as much as the other, and with the memory of bile in his mouth he isn’t really all that hungry.   
The mess hall has more bodies in it this time, the echo of light chatter and clanking of cutlery and trays allows Clint and Phil to fall into an easy silence as they eat. Phil’s hand eventually reaching across the table to hold Clint’s while he pushes his food around the plate. 

“Steve brought in more kids.” Nat says in way of hello as she puts her tray of food down beside theirs to sit, “The kitchen’s complaining, Fury’s complaining -,” 

“Fury complains. It’s what he does.” Clint points out around a mouthful of jerky, his fingers still tangled with Phil’s. 

“We need to hit something bigger than a few houses.” Nat finishes, eyeing Clint up from across the table before flicking a look to Phil. The older agent nods his head once –Clint will be okay. This morning wasn’t great but it wasn’t the worst they’ve had either. 

“The hospitals would be nice.” Steve arrives with a tray of his own and joins them, Clint scooting over to make room on the bench, “And no one would complain about more food. Toiletries are in short supply as well.” 

“Everything’s in short supply.” Clint grumbles. 

“The hospitals are risky.” Phil reminds his team, “A few of them have Rovers squatting in them and they don’t want to share.” Past negotiations with the few bands of survivors who decided to say ‘fuck it, we’ll make it on our own’ had not gone so well. Many of them had died out –Chitauri hunting them down or exposure whittling them away –but the few that remained were tough as nails and not likely to part with what little they’d scrounged. 

“It’s either that or a huge haul on an apartment complex.” Steve puts forth, taking out a rough road map he’d taken from an abandoned car’s glove compartment and smoothing it onto the table. Red pen etch x’s and o’s painting a trail of Steve’s travels from one side of the island to the other. Some of them overlap where Clint and Phil have journeyed, but others are much further towards the southern Wall. Steve takes out the red ballpoint pen from his pocket and circles an area in Midtown. 

“We haven’t hit here.” He taps the page, “There are a band of Rovers that have a stretch of Hell’s Kitchen and into Midtown; but if we’re careful, and quick, we should be able to miss them.” 

“Phil and I can be quick.” Clint assures, eyes studying the map. 

And they were quick. They just weren’t lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently working (yay!) so this will probably not be a regular update (boo!) but I will do my best and I intend to finish it. Please be patient.


End file.
